


The Boy Who Refused to Cry

by Bored_Panda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: If I continue it, M/M, Trigger Warning: Self-Hatred, Well see, i was thinking mystrade for this fic too, oh by the way guys, trigger warning: bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:59:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bored_Panda/pseuds/Bored_Panda
Summary: Sherlock's five-year-old-self had lived through much. Maybe it'll get better. Maybe it'll get worse.





	The Boy Who Refused to Cry

"Look at him!"

"What's there to look at?"

Sherlock ducked his head, a flush red coating his cheekbones. He silently kicked himself as he walked faster and faster to class. Mummy had said to pay no mind to them, that they were idiots that simply didn't understand. But then again, what did mummy understand? She saw him once a year.

He sat in the very back of the room, leafing through his books, making double and triple sure his homework was done, as well as the rest of the week's homework. When he noticed some ugly letters, odd and misshapen in their hurry to be written, Sherlock erased them quickly and rewrote them, not wanting for his teacher to be disappointed. The bell rang, students filed in, ridiculing the way his feet didn't even reach the floor. They called him words he didn't even know, faggot, fairy, pathetic, whore. They were only two years older than him and yet, they knew so many words! Sherlock looked away, feeling like the idiot little five-year-old he was as his peers continued to mock him.

"Sherlock Holmes!" The little boy straightened his back, cleared his voice as he disrupted the sudden silence in the room. He spoke, "Yes, Miss?" The class erupted with laughter again, spouting even more words, but now, they held the word girl and high-pitched little freak. Sherlock swallowed around the thing in his neck as it choked him, trying his best to ignore the jeering laughter as he looked down at his neatly stacked pile of notebooks, his back still straight. He wanted to run, far away and as fast as his short legs could carry his pathetic body. The teacher herself suppressed a giggle as the joined in the little chanting of, "Freak! Freak! Freak!" Before abruptly cutting herself off, bored already.

She commanded the class into silence before walking up to him, taking the meticulously neat-kept notebooks and filing through the pages. And then sounds of ripping filled the room, his meticulously written work torn to shreds as she spoke more ill words of displeasure.

A sharp sound sounded, her ruler clutched tightly in her hand. "Disgraceful you are, Sherlock Holmes." She repeated the action, hitting Sherlock on his cheekbones. The little boy tried his best not to cry, to stay still as he felt her break through skin, felt his face swell under her admissions. "Stop, please," He thought. But it had never worked before. In fact, it had only led to his naked bum being smacked till it bled, all in front of the class.

As soon as the hair pulling and name calling were finished, Sherlock moved to stand, moving silently to his feet so he could make his way out of the room. The teacher didn't stop him, giggling at the way his cheek had swollen up before giving it a sharp slap with her hand, right over the bleeding skin. It whisked Sherlock's head back, forced his unruly curls to bounce, but he didn't utter a sound. Quietly, he made his way out the door, surprised when not a single hinderance was presented, a farewell of nothing but absolute silence.

It was too good to be true, and Sherlock had known it. Still, he had hoped. Mistake. A voice from the classroom behind the abused child spoke, "Madame, I need the restroom, please." Sherlock didn't bother praying, didn't bother quickening his pace either. He knew what would happen. He was tugged back by the arm, thrown in the corner with a certain lifelessness in his eyes. The teacher continued the lesson while the older boy unzipped his trousers. The five-year-old curled in on himself as he felt the first stream of warm, disgusting liquid seep into his hair and down his face. A hoarse sob left him before he bit his tongue to force himself into compliant silence. It would end soon, it always did. The little boy fought his tears away as humiliation and anger cut through him, the boy letting his cock drip on him for a bit, making sure every drop was out before he tucked himself back into his pants, zipping up his trousers and spitting on Sherlock before returning to his seat.

Sherlock stood as soon as the boy was away and ran, far away and as fast as his short legs could carry his pathetic body. He sobbed, breaking down as every word that they had said forced its way into his brilliant mind, corrupting the good there. It was unfair! It had to be! No other boy had to face this-- nor did any girl for that matter! It must've been just Sherlock, nothing else. The smart kids were left alone, the short kids were left alone, the young kids were left alone-- all of them happy within their little group of friends. A little group of friends that Sherlock could've easily fit into if only he wasn't... Sherlock. If only he wasn't a freak.

Day seeped into night and night seeped into day. Sherlock stayed there, reeking of piss until some random boy, so much older than him approacher him, crouching down.

"Oh Sherlock, what've you done, now?"

The boy wanted to scream, "Nothing!" But the last time he'd protested, he'd be starved for days. Instead, he stood up, looking down at the ground. "Sorry sir, I'll return back to class this very instant." He started his march down the hill, not uttering another word. "Sherlock. Stop. It's Mycroft." Mycroft. Sherlock turned, looking up at the boy. He ran towards him, wordless as he wrapped his arms around his elder brother's legs, clutching his trousers as he sobbed into them-- all while feeling soft, comforting fingers in his hair. He had Mycroft-- Mycroft who loved him, adored him, kept him safe-- left him to this place. Sherlock was wrong, Mycroft didn't love him or adore him or any other thing like that.

Sherlock took two steps back, looking up at his brother with a too-mature fire in his eyes. It made the older boy gasp in the intensity of it. "I hate you." The child turned, half-running downhill. Until he was stopped, until he was held back in something like a hug. Sherlock hated it, he smelled like urine and his pitying brother was hugging him. He didn't want this. He didn't want anyone looking at him, anyone touching him, because why would they ever want to do that to such an incompetent, dirty child as Sherlock? He didn't even deserve the last name Holmes, it held too much dignity-- something that Sherlock was told by his teacher that he didn't have anymore. He was a freak, a fairy, a repulsive excuse for a human being.

Still, Mycroft held him, muttering and apologizing and whispering. "I'm going to take you away from this place, Sherlock. Mummy and I are going to send you somewhere nice, somewhere they know how truly brilliant you are." And finally, Sherlock relaxed into his brother's touch, fighting off the self-hatred that no five-year-old child should've ever been faced with.

**Author's Note:**

> Another request from my friend. She said, "Vulgar doesn't bother me," or something like that-- so here we are.


End file.
